


The Other Way Round

by ModernDayBard



Series: Other Way Round [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 17:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17471561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: [Re-posted from my FF account--not stolen.]Infinity War broke many hearts. No matter who your favorite character was, they are either lost, or they lost someone dear to them. No one escaped unscathed. But what if, when the inseparable were separated, it was the other one who survived—what if this story went ‘The Other Way Round’? (4 Chapters, each its own AU.)





	1. Brother

Thanos ruined _everything_.

Was it only a few brief moments ago that his biggest worry had been how his brother’s Midgardian friends would react to his arrival? That his mind was engaged in scheming up a revenge on that petty human sorcerer? (Yes, it was definitely the sorcerer who was petty—after his treatment, planning for some slight revenge most certainly was not.)

And now the ship he’d flown in so dramatically and with such perfect timing to the flawless recuse was destroyed, the people he had saved were dead, and all hard-won friends—that was, allies—flung to the stifling vacuum of space, or killed here and now by the Black Order—individuals he’d hoped never to see again, to speak nothing of their master.

Even the Valkyrie was gone, Heimdall was dead, and the beast on which he’d hinged a last desperate hope had been pummeled like a toddling infant, then flung who-knows-where. His brother, the fool, was restrained and helpless, still struggling to break free and continue the fight—the fight he knew they’d lost as soon as he’d seen and recognized the ship before them.

Thanos had taken everything away from him, and he was going to pay for that.

This had been his chance to be the great, dramatic hero, to get some good recognition—some appropriate appreciation for once in his often-overshadowed life—and now it lay in flaming ruins around him. Quite literally.

And the Mad Titan dared to smirk and smile as his followers spewed trite platitudes about balance and salvation.

Rage grew in the Jotun, fueled by the still-fresh memory of his brother’s screams as Thanos tortured him—all to get the Space Stone from within the tesseract.

_And you gave it to him, you fool—you know what he will do. Do you honestly think you will escape him just by giving him what he seeks?_

Of course he didn’t. Here on this ship—or later, when all the stones were placed within gauntlet—for his previous failures, Thanos would kill him. Looking at it that way, he was already dead, or else on borrowed time. Better to go out on a blaze of idiotic glory that just might work, too, than try to flee from or barter with the inevitable.

He felt the knife form in his grip, hidden between his arm and his body, and dared to picture it actually stabbing into the Mad Titan’s throat, winning the war before it truly began—who was the heroic brother, then?

But that strike never finished, frozen by the very stone he’d surrendered as Thanos’ scarred visage loomed over him.

“…You should’ve chosen your words more carefully.”

Death it was, then. And no time left for a trick, like last time. How long would it take Thor to believe, this time? Or would he know, too, that this had been the fate he’d bought himself years ago—that he’d tried to hide from under borrowed visages for as long as he could?

As the fingers closed around his throat, painfully tight, cutting off any oxygen, he turned to his first weapon—and his last one, too, he supposed—words. He growled out a final taunt, eyes fixed on Thanos, hoping to at least see the flicker of a gaze that indicated the sort of wound he knew best how to inflict.

Instead, the Titan read him, for he’d been to free, to open in what he thought of as his final moments. He’d showed his defiance too much, Thanos had seen his utter refusal to care for his own life at the moment of death.

And then, curse him, he _remembered_.

Thanos lifted the figure in his grasp, until Titan and Jotun were eye-to-eye. “I seem to recall an earlier pledge, as well. I think it was my lieutenant who delivered the terms, then.”

The same memory, the same words, flashed through both minds:

_“You think you have known pain? You will long for something as sweet as pain!”_

He choked, then realized the grip around his throat had loosened marginally—just enough for a breath, a single breath every moment or so. Enough to live, but not happily. Torture and then death, then? Unpleasant, but then, he had felt the Titan’s worst that time he’d become their guest after falling from the Bifrost what felt like a lifetime ago.

Then Thanos shifted his gaze slightly, and the trickster did not even have to look to realize what his defiance had actually betrayed—betrayed for one final time.

“Hold him. Let him see.”

He was dropped, then—his body crashing painfully down onto rubble from their spacecraft, one knife-think piece of metal stabbing into his abdomen. Before he could regain his feet, his weapon, his desperate, almost animalistic urge to fight for what was his, Ebony Maw waved his hand once, twice, and he found himself facing his brother, the two of them bound and gagged in nearly identical manners.

_Physical restraints? Is that what they think of me, then?_

Tuning out Thanos’ taunts, eyes never leaving his brother—even as he saw realization set in to the remaining eye of the God of Thunder—the trickster reached for his magic, mind already racing for the best use of it to get them both out of this…

…it wasn’t there.

He was drained, empty: either from all the effort expended during the fight, especially in those first few moment when he’d been all but overcome by panic at the Titan’s ship appearing in front of him, the specter that haunted his nightmare; or else drained from him by the power stone as Thanos had held him. Did it truly matter which? It was gone—and now he lacked any means, magical, verbal, or physical, to stop what was coming.

A desperate sob threatened to wrack his frame at that realization; an angry scream tried to claw its way to freedom from his throat as Thanos set the power stone against his brother’s head once more, this time with no intention of pulling back. But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t allow either out. Whichever emotion broke past his guard, however it manifested, would only amuse is tormentors, and hurt his brother.

_As if he could be hurt anymore, right now._

Thor’s cries of agony were muffled, this time, by the metal gag, but that somehow only made it worse, that and the blood that trickled beneath it from some injury won from the restraints, as if he were not already enduring the worst pain imaginable.

As they had before, those cries pierced him to the core, but this time he held no bargaining chip that could save his brother. He didn’t even have the freedom to scream himself, and beg Thanos for some kind of mercy. All he could do was keep watching—for one, he physically couldn’t turn his head away, but for another, he wouldn’t, had he been capable. They were the only two survivors on this ship, and Thor, who shouldn’t have been the one dying, at least shouldn’t die alone.

Thor had asked him once, when they were children, if his magic had the power to allow him to read people’s minds, or better yet to allow him to converse with a person in their mind, where no one else could hear. He had said no, and nothing else, thinking to himself, as he watched his disappointed brother walk away, that even if he could, he wouldn’t want to hear the idiot with his mind as well as his ears, and thus had never sought out the answer that he, truthfully, did not know.

Now, he wished he had. Perhaps it wouldn’t change anything about this situation, though the surprise may have thrown Thanos off enough for something to have happened. But even if he could just reach out to his brother tell him…something. _I’m sorry? This isn’t what I wanted? It was supposed to be me? I wasn’t actually going to betray you this time? I do care?_ Or maybe he could’ve been able to shield his brother from some of the pain, grant him some kind of respite from the torture, even if it meant feeling it himself, instead. But there could be no final words, no closure, no farewell—

_Stop it._

He didn’t hear the words—with his ears or with his mind—but he could read them in his brother’s remaining eye.

_Don’t give up._

Easy enough to read—it may has well have been his brother’s life philosophy, if he’d ever thought to verbalize it. But now, it was a command, and a legacy.

_Live. Fight._

The air was crackling now with the Power Stone, but Thor was silent. Not dead, yet—just unable to scream anymore. The end was coming.

Black Order be dammed, Thor had to know.

For the first time in a long time, he dropped any sort of guard over his face, tried to let Thor read him, like he himself was so easy to read. The overwhelming urge to look away, to put up any sort of mask was crushed internally—who cared about honor, dignity, or his stupid pride? That was what had led them to this mess to begin with! That was what had made this all start to fall apart, so long ago, mistakes that led them here, now.

_I’m sorry._

_Forgiven._

Then, in the final heartbeat before the Power Stone pulsed one last time, Thor repeated himself:

_Live. Fight. For me._

Then the purple aura of the power stone exploded outward, burning his face and torso, making even Thanos’ ‘children’ fall back a step, and propelling Thor’s body out into the vacuum of space. He had tried to watch it, tried to hold on to whatever was left of his brother, but the blast had left him blinking spots from his eyes, and by the time he could see, his brother was out of sight.

Gone.

Before he could process the realization, before his many battling emotions declared a winner, Ebony Maw had turned to him, drew one of his hideous fingers down the trickster’s cheek. He flinched away at the touch before he could curse himself for weakness, realizing he was no alone—so utterly alone—with the monsters from his darkest nightmares.

“Tears,” the hateful creature observed with a mocking sneer. “Pathetic.”

He snarled, deep in his throat, but still could neither move nor draw on magic. At once his bonds clattered to the floor. He fell with them, not expecting the release, and before he could stand, Thanos had again seized him by the neck, hauling him upright until they glared each other in the face, the Jotun’s toes not even scraping the ruined deck.

Thanos gaze flicked downward, noting the piece of metal still embedded in the trickster’s abdomen, which he himself only just remembered. Casually, the Mad Titan seized it and flicked it away, tearing the wound a little wider.

“We can’t have you die now. Not when your brother just bought your life with his.”

He kicked, struggled, once again unable to breathe properly, but it turned out he had air enough to scream as Thanos used the barest flicker of the Power Stone’s energy to seal the wound closed.

Behind the struggling trickster, a blue portal, torn open by the Space Stone yawned wide.

“If you survive, tell Earth I am coming for them.”

And he was flung through and away from the scene of utter death and destruction.

* * *

He crashed through a ceiling, glass shards from some kind of skylight adding to his list of injuries, but paling in comparison to a different sort of pain, then hit the floor with enough momentum to dent it (he seemed to do that to a lot of Midgardian floors, if that’s truly where he was—or so the one part of his mind that reveled in giddy insanity noted), but thankfully not enough to fully break through to the one below it. It was a little sad that he had enough experience with such landings to know the difference between truly hitting ground or hitting an upper story.

His ears recovered before his eyes did, or perhaps he couldn’t see the room because he’d rolled onto his side and curled up after landing, trying to protect himself a few seconds longer, reconstruct some form of a guard or mask before facing the unknown.

_Live. Fight. For me._

“Am I ever actually going to get a chance to repair that ceiling, or should I just wait for a third hole to complete the set?” An unknown male audience asked someone—hopefully not him, he had no idea what the fool was blabbering about.

“Is this how you guys normally get visitors, or is today just special?” That voice…that voice was more familiar, but he couldn’t place it, yet. Ears had recovered before his mind fully had, it seemed.

There was an irritated huff—he could hardly blame the person—before there was a reply. “Are you absolutely incapable of more than a minute’s silence, or are you actually convinced you are that funny?”

_Damn._

That voice, he knew. He’d just been thinking about it, before everything had gone wrong, planning a fun little reunion with its owner before it became the last thing in the world to matter.

He rolled onto his other side slowly, painfully, cracking one eye open to glare at the human sorcerer, only to find that there were four men clustered close: Strange, a man he didn’t know, his brother’s friend, Stark, and Banner.

He only had the energy for a handful of words: at least three, beyond that he would need more time to recover physically and magically. He’d intended to lead with ‘Thanos is coming,’ in order to maximize Midgard’s time and chance to prepare for the Mad Titan’s onslaught, and the fight he knew his brother wanted him to aid, to join. But if Banner was here, with Strange and Stark, than they knew. The message had come even earlier, when Heimdall used his final moments to save the beast instead of his king—

He let that thought go. He supposed he should have said ‘Thor is dead,’ after all, he supposed is brother’s friends would want to know. Hel, the blond fool would probably say _deserved_ to know, probably counted them that close (really, it was a marvel just who and what his brother would pack-bond to—he supposed Thor could bond even to a tree if there was no one else).

But he couldn’t say it. The words wouldn’t come, and he didn’t want to make them—to take that truth he wished was anything but, to ground it in words and make it…real.

Yes, if he said the words, then it would be real, and right now, that’s the last thing he wanted it to be. Foolish? Absolutely, but it was how he was managing to hold himself together for now and it would have to do for a bit longer, if they were to have any chance at all.

No, he could not say ‘Thor is dead,’ and he didn’t need to say ‘Thanos is coming,’ but as the four men stared, only one in anything close to concern, Loki of Asgard, rightful king of Jotunheim, God of Mischief, Odin’s Son, Brother of Thor, met their gaze and stood, swaying slightly but fists and jaw clenched.

“Trust my rage.”


	2. Sister

They had lost.

T’Challa knew that: of _course_ he knew that. All of his new allies had watched someone dear to them fade away, or else been unable to find them, realizing the lost one had been alone in their final moments. But _he_ had been forced to watch half his army disintegrate, one by one. No, not just an army, not just soldiers, these were his _people_ , they had lives, hopes, and dreams, and, as their king, it was supposed to be his job to ensure their country was a place that those hopes and dreams had a chance. He was supposed to protect those lives, as Black Panther, and as their king.

He had failed them, and now he could not even take the time to mourn them—half his people had died, but half had lived, and arguably, they needed him more, at that moment. 

So, while the others sat in the stunned grief that threatened to swallow him as well, he forced himself to stand, to search for survivors, to get the injured to help and to get some sense of what needed most to be done. Okoye had lived, and M’Baku, as well, so some small mercies had been granted the young king. The two of them, without a word, knew what he was doing and joined in with organizing searches, and reaching out to those who had escorted the civilians out of the city during the evacuation, to take stock of what and who were left there. 

It was Okoye who noticed her king occasionally glancing at the beads on his wrist, and she could’ve cursed herself for not realizing the fear that weighed on his mind—that should have been on hers as well. But it had been easier, in these first few hours, to concentrate on what was tangible in front of them, what was fixable, and use activity as a wall to hold overwhelming grief at bay. 

But they couldn’t keep hiding behind it. _He_ couldn’t. 

“My king, I think it would be best for you to return to the city.”

He stared first at her, then scanned the devastated field and the clumps of people still milling about it. “There is still much to be done here.” 

She nodded, still speaking quietly, knowing he still needed to appear—still needed to _be_ —strong, especially now. “There is much to be done there, as well.” She indicated the surviving Avengers with a nod, the devastated heroes having drifted toward each other, discovering which of them had and had not made it yet. “There, they can recover, plan, strategize. Here, they are just underfoot.” 

T’Challa glanced to the city, visible in the distance, then to her and nodded. “Once I know what the situation is there, I will send what help I can.” 

She snapped her arms across her chest in salute, then watched him go. She didn’t feel relieved at all. _“…what the situation is there…”_ They both knew what he had meant by that and both simultaneously knew and dreaded discovering the answer. 

* * *

When they arrived back at the city, some of the avengers did jump into the hive of activity that was the rescue and medical efforts—those that had been less affected, or those who, like him, chose action as a bulwark against grief.

Before T’Challa could even think of joining them, he saw his mother –thank Bast, she was _alive,_ she was _there_ —and her expression froze the young warrior-king. 

He never could say, afterward, how the two of them ended up in a small side-room, alone and enough out of sight that their grief could be private, because the next thing he knew, he was seated next to his mother, holding her as she cried—she actually _cried_. 

He had not been there when she heard of his father’s death, or (obviously) his own supposed death. It had been Shuri, both those times who saw their mother face the immediate grief. 

Shuri. 

This wasn’t _right;_ this couldn’t _be_ —his sister was _always_ there, her humor and her intelligence and her vibrant _life_ a constant. He was the king, he was the Black Panther, but most of all he was her _brother_ and it was his job to protect her, to ensure that she could live and grow up in a world that would understand how brilliant and wonderful she was.

He was supposed to protect the world so she could dazzle it, change it for the better. She was supposed to rule over the lab in the mountain, tease him when he dared intrude her sanctum, glow with pride as she showed of the next piece of tech that stunned him, while she laughed and joked like it was _nothing,_ it was _easy_. She was supposed to make snarky comments about traditional garb and makeup, but then use those same design elements in her tech, because however much she joked she _loved_ her country and was so _proud_ of her heritage. 

She was supposed to outshine him until he was remembered only as her brother, and nothing would make him _prouder—_

They had lost, and now, he knew it deeply.


	3. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So, one thing about this chapter: at the time I wrote it, I had only seen Infinity War once, and had misheard/not heard clearly Groot's final words, and had misinterpreted the tweet about the final 'I am Groot' meaning 'Dad'--I somehow got it into my head Groot had actually said the word 'Dad', and I had missed it. So that's why he says it here.)

This was _wrong_.

He could scan the field around him on this strange new planet and see people he didn’t really know, but who had fought beside him, start to crumble away into ashes, or dust, or whatever-it-was. These were strong people, fierce fighters, but even they were not strong enough to stay.

Trembling with fear and confusion, the teen turned to the strongest person he knew, and the one person he knew well on this world, seeking some kind of answer, some kind of reassurance that as _wrong_ as things looked right now, they’d get better—that their band of allies would actually win, or better yet, that he was asleep on the ship and dreaming up a nightmare future scenario.

Instead, it got worse.

Rocket was only a yard or so away from him—just at the other end of the log Teen Groot had slumped against when his legs gave out in shock at the destruction around him, when the army began to literally dissolve—but the distance may as well have been a mile or more for all that the grey-furred creature could cross it with his legs already beginning to turn to ash.

Every drop of sap in the young tree’s body _burned_ to spring upright and run over to Rocket, to anchor him somehow and keep him _here_ , but he couldn’t move. His wood was frozen in horror as the other Guardian continued to disappear.

Rocket must have seen the fear in the teen’s dark eyes, because he tried to hide a little of his own, tried to show as gentle a smile as he could manage. “Easy, buddy. Quill’s comin’—just hang on…”

Groot, whatever his age, was a tree of extremely few words (3-5, depending on which guardian you asked), but as Rocket was almost gone, he found one more, and in came out in an anguished wail: “DAD!”

He just saw Rocket’s ears shoot straight upright and eyes widen before they vanished, and he managed to propel himself forward, finally—

But too late.

“Dad! Dad! DAD!” He kept screaming it, kept staring at the place Rocket had been, hiccupping and wailing in anguished grief. Rocket _couldn’t_ be gone—he was tougher than anyone he knew. All the Guardians were, but Rocket was…well, _Rocket._ He was short, but he stood tall, talked big, carried a big gun, and tried to hide an even bigger heart. Surely he couldn’t just be _gone?_

Groot never could say later how long he was there, crying out in grief (sometimes his new word, sometimes a wordless scream), passed by the surviving warriors of this strange land. Some gave him odd looks, others expressions of grief that mirrored his own, and some were so hollowed out by lost they had no expression at all, but he ignored them all.

“Hey, uh—Groot, was it?”

The young tree turned his head slightly, seeing the man who now stood next to him. At first he didn’t recognize…Oh, yes, he did. It was the man who’d introduced himself in the middle of the fight when he had tried to say, ‘pleased to meet you’. It wasn’t as bad a misunderstanding as many, but he doubted this man could understand him at all…

It struck Groot then that there was a strong possibility no one on earth could—Quill’d had to learn, along with everyone else, and this was his home planet—and he began to feel even smaller than a twig as he realized just how alone he was on this strange planet.

“Dad,” he croaked out, in a voice torn and small by all the torment he’d put it through in his grief, and he indicated the spot he was crouched over, where Rocket had been. Where Rocket _should be._

The man—Steve Rogers, hadn’t he said?—closed his eyes for a second, and Groot read the exhaustion there, but the grief as well. Well, if half the universe had just been wiped out, this man had likely lost someone as well—perhaps just had his own version of the nightmare scene Groot had lived through. He opened his eyes, lay a hand on the teen’s shoulder—a hand not so much comforting as heavy with a shared grief—and mercifully, didn’t speak.

There were no words, anyway, but Groot didn’t want to have to ply through the too-familiar scene of someone finding out about the ‘Groot’ language. Particularly when there was no one who could translate—

Wait.

Wasn’t there?

Or was he gone, too?

Groot really didn’t want to think about that possibility, and he forced himself to his feet, already looking around for the one other face that would be familiar. The man beside him put out a steadying hand, and didn’t even flinch when it came in contact with the bark-like texture of the teen’s arm.

“Easy, there. You good?”

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t the deliberate rudeness he’d been exploring as he entered the teenage phase of his life-cycle, it was a single-minded focus: the only thing holding him together at the moment. Quill and the others were coming—Rocket had said so—and until they got there, he’d stick by the one other person he knew for sure would understand him.

He saw him, then: standing with his new axe hanging limply in his hand (Groot unconsciously rubbed his new arm at the sight of its handle), surrounded by some other individuals he supposed were the ‘Avengers’ this Thor had told him about. The blonde lady saw him first, and as her eyes widened, Thor turned.

“Ah, friend Tree. Thank you Rogers, for finding him.” Thor was no longer trying to sound cheerful, as he had on the ship, and given what had just happened, Groot was glad.

“Dad,” he croaked again, pointing back the way he’d come, to where Rocket had faded. Then, indicating the blue sky above them: “I am Groot.”

He ignored the confused looks from the others gathered, focused on Thor who closed the distance between them, resting a large hand on the tree’s thin shoulders. “Of course they are coming. Family—” his voice broke there a little, but he recovered and pressed on with another forced smile, a small one, now, “Family always comes back for its own. They won’t leave you behind.”

Content, Groot nodded, then sat down beside Thor and tilted his head up, watching and waiting, ignoring the others around him and their murmured conversation. At some point, Thor must’ve explained who he was, why he was there, and who he was waiting for, because the looks darted in his direction changed from confused to sympathetic, but he didn’t care. He kept looking up, kept waiting.

_“Easy, buddy. Quill’s comin’—just hang on…”_

Right now, that was all he could do.

* * *

He was the first to see the Milano appear outside the barrier—early the next morning. He lurched away from Thor (who he’d been shadowing the whole time) and began to run towards the blue-and-orange ship just as the alarm sirens started wailing.

He vaguely heard Thor behind him shouting reassurances that he knew this ship, that it was friendly, but he didn’t care about that, right now. His family was here. He needed them so much, right now: He needed Drax’s simple honesty, Mantis’ gentle innocence, Quill’s confidence, and, most of all, Gamora’s kindness. He _needed_ them so much.

A portion of the barrier opened right in front of him and he ran through it just as the ramp lowered. Groot didn’t stop running until he saw who the first figure off the ship was, when he halted in confusion.

Nebula?

He tried to shake off any misgivings. After all, the group had been chasing after Thanos, right? Of course they’d encounter Nebula as she pursued her own mission of vengeance, and surely Gamora could’ve convinced her to join forces with them.

Then she caught sight of him, and that expression of emptiness, the too-familiar look of someone who’s been carved hollow by loss, by grief, brought back all the fears he’d tried to shake. Gamora, gone too? Nothing else could make Nebula look at him like that. He began to shake again.

“Groot, where’s Rocket?” Her voice was flat, like she was barely managing to keep herself pressing forward.

Mechanically, he pointed to where Rocket had last been and croaked out, “Dad.”

Nebula hadn’t always been able to understand his words, but this time, at least, his tone made it clear. “Damn.”

That about summed it up. Then she turned to him again, and the realization he saw dawn in her eyes made the world fall apart again.

No, it couldn’t be—he couldn’t be the only one left. That couldn’t be what she met with that expression. They couldn’t be gone.

He tried to run past her into the ship—into his home—but she intercepted him, wrapping him in those metal arms, though whether she was just trying to stop him, or shield him from the emptiness inside, or even pass on a modicum of comfort, he couldn’t say and didn’t care to know. He tried to squirm out of her grasp, but the blue cyborg was too strong from the grief-stricken tree.

Drax, with his plain-spoken, literal words and unshakable loyalty, gone? Mantis, with her wide-eyed curiosity, her love for life and new friends, gone? Gamora, with her fierce protectiveness, but gentle touch and warm smile, gone? Quill, with his snark, his jokes, his music, his references nobody but he understood, and his heart (however much he tried to play the rogue and outlaw), gone?

He continued struggling in Nebula’s grasp, desperate that she was wrong, even that she was playing a cruel trick and that his family was just in there, just out of his sight.

“WE ARE GROOT!” he screamed, and then, he couldn’t stop: “WE ARE GROOT, WE ARE GROOT, WE ARE GROOT!”

There were voices behind him—maybe even Thor’s—and Nebula’s quiet sobs in his ear, but he couldn’t make himself focus on them, couldn’t make himself care.

This was _wrong_.

He was _alone_.


	4. Father

Gone. Slipped through his fingers.

There’d been a moment—a single, beautiful moment—when it seemed like they had won. When he felt the gauntlet budge, then slide towards him, coming off the purple giant’s hand. Then this Thanos guy had roared, shaken the others off, pulled the golden gauntlet out of Peter’s grip, and slammed him with a powerful back-handed blow, knocking him away like he really _was_ some kind of bug.

After Peter shook off the blow, got his breath back, and jumped back in, the rest of the battle became something of a blur. At one point, he knew he was swinging about, catching their odd new allies as they tumbled through the odd gravity of the dead planet (which had taken him a moment to adjust his swings to for the different momentum and resistance), and it struck him that he didn’t know their names—or couldn’t remember them in the moment.

Sure, maybe it was a small thing, but May had raised him to be polite and friendly to everyone (besides, he was the ‘friendly neighborhood Spiderman’—it went with the job description!) but practicality (a voice that sounded like a slightly less-snarky Mr. Stark) told him he could save the manners for after the fight was over.

While he did that, Mr. Stark had kept fighting the Big Bad with the help of that wizard guy and the blue girl—wait, when had she show up? Sometime during their attempt to get the gauntlet, or was it just before?

Peter wondered if his memory issues, and the fact the fight seemed to be little more than a few scattered crystalline moments in an otherwise murky blur were side-effects of a concussion, or if it was just the normal effect of battlefield adrenaline. He should probably ask Mr. Stark about that once this was all over, except, if he did that, Mr. Stark would actually test him for a concussion, probably freak out, and might even take the suit away…again. Or at least, ground him for a bit from patrolling.

“I mean, it probably is adrenaline—‘cause I know I’m saying all of this out loud even though nobody’s listening to me because this really is how I keep sane in high-stress situations, and I definitely say this qualifies.”

None of the three he was grabbing made any sort of reply to this rambling monologue (after all, they looked to be dazed or unconscious), but as he grabbed the girl with the antennae (those were really cool!) she actually opened her eyes and looked right at him. “Uh, hi.” He managed. “You alright?”

She glanced at the fight still going on behind them, then back at him and gave him a small smile. “Brave.”

“I’m sure you are—” Peter started, before she reached out and placed her hand on the side of his mask.

“No,” she said, still smiling. “ _We_ are.”

A little of the fluttering in his stomach subsided, and that urge to help that drove him every day to don the suit and swing through his city flared up stronger than it had in a while (several minutes, at least) and he turned back to the main fight just as the purple guy blasted the wizard away in the middle of a really cool, really trippy-looking spell.

He saw an opening—an easy swing, actually—and without hesitation, he took it, slamming into the Big Bad feet-first with all of his bodyweight and momentum behind the impact (not that his bodyweight was all that impressive, especially with the wonky gravity on this planet, but the sheer surprise of a metal-clad teenager propelling himself into your face is enough to at least surprise most people, and that surprise should’ve been enough time for the wizard and the others to recover—right?).

But the giant caught him in some kind of blue aura and flung him away. Peter tumbled, then was back on his feet ready to run in behind Mr. Stark and Blue Girl as they launched a tandem attack.

The girl was knocked away, and Peter saw his mentor slammed into the ground with a _crunch_ and several smaller but no less painful _cracks_ , and he sort of lost his train of rational thought as he charged in, trying to buy Mr. Stark time to _get up_ (oh please, please _get up_ and _be okay_!).

It seemed he actually caught Big Bad off-guard, and for the first fight since receiving his powers, Peter Parker did not pull his punches. This guy wasn’t human, and nothing else they were throwing at him was making much of an impact. He had time to land five blows, any one of which could’ve killed a human, then his right arm was seized, twisted, and _broken_.

Peter screamed—he couldn’t help it when he felt the bones crack and shift against each other—and he felt more than saw or heard Mr. Stark behind him, but before Iron Man could say or do anything, a blast of purple energy knocked him backwards again, then all of the giant’s attention was on him again.

“All that for a single drop of blood?”

Peter glanced at the strange face above him and saw that, for all he’d thrown at the threat, only a single wound—barely more than a scratch—existed to show for his effort. His stomach roiling from the pain in his arm, which was still being held so tightly, and it was all he could do to stop a whimper from escaping. They’d been so _close_.

The purple face loomed large, frowning. “A child? I’m impressed…and disappointed.”

He flung Peter to the ground and, before the boy could think, he’d caught himself at least partially on his broken arm, tearing another cry of pain from him involuntarily. He saw Mr. Stark struggle upright, trying to jump back into the fight, but hampered by his own injuries.

It seemed to Peter afterward that he noticed three things simultaneously, even though some of them must have happened before others. He felt his Spidey-Sense send a jolt up his arms (for the second time that day), he saw Mr. Stark’s eyes went wide (wait—when did he lose his mask? Was that safe?), and he felt the dagger-sized piece of scrap metal (was that a piece of Mr. Stark’s Suit? His? Their space ship? Something else? Did it matter?) that Thanos stabbed him with from behind, piercing through his suit twice (back and front), which didn’t seem like it should be possible, but they were fighting a giant purple alien for a bunch of magic rocks, he supposed he could let it slide.

Next thing Peter knew, he was sitting on the ground, facing the purple guy again, broken arm wrapped around his bleeding abdomen, staring at Mr. Stark’s back as his mentor stood between him and the threat, both repulsors blasting.

The purple aura blocked the charges, then a blue one flung Iron Man away like he was little more than a rag doll, and then suddenly there was no one between Peter and the looming giant.

“When I am done, half of humanity will still live. I hope they remember you all.”

The gauntlet was raised then, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut, praying that he could hold in any noise of pain or fear—that’d not be a great way to go out, even if that was how he felt.

“Stop.”

The wizard didn’t shout, but his voice held such authority, certainty, that everyone turned to him, even the bad guy. They all saw the green stone he was holding out, and stillness fell for the first time since Thanos’ arrival.

“Spare the boy, and I will give you what you want.”

Peter stared, wondering if he was already delirious from blood loss or something—this was the same guy who’d said on the ship that he _wouldn’t_ choose him or Mr. Stark over the Stone (yes, he did hear that—Mr. Stark seemed to forget what Peter’d once told him about his senses being dialed up to 11 after he got his powers). The Big Bad seemed surprised as well, but shook his shock off first, and seized the stone.

A blue portal opened behind him, and he was gone, leaving his defeated opponents on the dead planet.

Peter was still staring in shock at Dr. Strange, who now sat still, eyes closed, as if he was… waiting. He’d seen so many versions of events, only one where they won. Whichever track they were on now, or on still, he’d seen what was coming next. He was waiting for it. Had they lost, and he was waiting for the end? Or did they always lose here and win down the line? Why did he give up the stone, if it was the key to winning?

_Why did he give it up for me?_

All those thoughts crossed the boy’s mind in the time it took for Mr. Stark to scramble to his side, gently try to shift the injured arm to look at the more life-threatening wound. “—d, help me out here. Let me see what we can do.”

Peter re-focused on his mentor in time to hear the whispered, “Shit.”

“‘S not as bad as it looks,” Peter tried, but his protest wasn’t convincing, what with the fact that all he could manage was a strained mumble, and that, immediately after he forced the words out, he coughed, and a little blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. (That was never a good sign, he knew enough to know that.)

“Peter, stay with me, stay focused,” his mentor urged, his own voice taut with barely-suppressed panic. “Can you seal up the entry wounds with your webbing? Buy us some time, at least?”

Peter blinked, glancing down at the bloody gash. “But that’ll only stop the exterior bleeding. I’ll still be bleeding inside, and whatever organs that blade hit—” One look at Mr. Stark’s expression told him that the older man knew, (of course he did), and that he’d been doing everything he could not to think about how close Peter still was to dying. “Sealing the wounds. Might be able to make-shift a cast for the arm, too, if you help me set it.”

In the scope of things, a broken arm wasn’t life-threatening, wasn’t serious, might not even be important, from certain perspectives, but it was something _fixable,_ and Peter needed something that could be fixed right there and now, and it seemed that Mr. Stark understood that feeling.

God, it _hurt_ to set the arm—almost as much as breaking it or landing on it had—but the web-based cast actually seemed to be holding it steady, and Peter trusted that Mr. Stark had set it correctly, so he might not have to go through the whole thing again when—if—they got back to earth.

Scrabbling and scrambling sounds caught his attention then, and he looked up to see the rest of their allies had picked themselves up and where converging on the three earthlings with dazed, confused expressions that echoed the question that was hammering around in Peter’s skull, too: _What now?_

Suddenly, antennae-girl’s black eyes widened in something like fear. “Something’s happening.”

Then she just crumbled, vanishing into dust, and Peter choked back a horrified cry, surging to his feet and swaying.

_What’s happening?_

“Quill.”

Peter’s head snapped around and watched the bald, muscled guy also crumble. The teen could feel himself shaking now with horror, confusion, and fear in one stomach-turning sensation. The other Peter didn’t even get to say anything as he followed his teammates, and it felt harder and harder to breathe.

Had Thanos gotten the other stones? Was it over? Peter turned to the one person who seemed to know what was going on with the weird rock thingies, only to see that the wizard was dissolving like the Guardians.

Dr. Strange must’ve seen the question he didn’t have the air or will to voice, because he held his gaze and gave as much of an answer as he could: “It had to be this way. We’re in the endgame now.” Then, he couldn’t talk anymore, but it seemed like Peter could hear two more, unspoken words in that final gaze: _I’m sorry_.

He wanted to be home—he wanted this to be some sort of vivid nightmare he was dreaming on the bus—he wanted someone to tell him that everything was going to be alright. But it wasn’t—was it? The _wrongness_ of it was washing over him, choking him. Worse, a sense of dread was twisting in his damaged gut—not his Spidey-Sense, something deeper, more frightening.

He turned, then, to the only person who was any sort of comforting presence on this alien place, only to see that his mentor was standing too still, too stiff.

“Mr. Stark?”

The adult turned slowly, carefully, and a few wisps of dust were already peeling away. “I don’t feel so good,” he muttered, half to himself as if he wasn’t really aware that Peter was there.

_No! Nononononononono!_

There were only a few feet between the two, but with one injured and one dissolving, it took a monumental effort on both parts to close the gap. A heavy hand crashed onto Peter’s uninjured arm, with more of Tony Stark’s weight behind it than the older hero had probably intended, but at least his gaze was focused again, grounded in the present, and fixed on the horrified face in front of him.

“‘S going to be alright,” he lied, and the lie an adult was supposed to tell a kid when everything was going wrong, fell on deaf ears, because the teen had seen too much to believe it any more, however much he wanted to.

Peter clung to the man in front of him desperately, holding on as tight as he could, as if that somehow would stop and reverse what was happening in sickening slow motion. “Don’t go,” he pleaded, voice thick with tears he’d begun to shed without realizing. “Please, don’t go. I don’t want you to go—I don’t want you to go!” He was begging now, babbling, but he couldn’t stop.

Suddenly, he’d fallen to his knees, unable to hold the both of them upright much longer, and the man in his arms was almost gone, seemingly unable to speak. Peter shook his head, still crying, when an even worse thought struck him: If Thanos had done this (and who else could?), then he’d only been able to because Dr. Strange had given up the Time Stone… to save his life.

_This is all my fault._

“I’m sorry,” he wailed, just as what was left of his mentor crumbled away, leaving him alone, devastated, curled up on himself as his whole frame shook with terrified and guilt-laden sobs.

 _This is all my fault_.

If he’d stayed on the bus, he wouldn’t have been there at all.

 _This is all my fault_.

If he’d gone home when Mr. Stark told him to, the older hero would still be alive.

_This is all my fault._

If he’d been just a little bit faster, gotten the gauntlet off of Thanos’ hands, this never could have happened.

_This is all my fault._

If he’d been a better fighter—If he’d done something different—If he’d been _good_ _enough_ —

If he hadn’t let it all slip through his fingers…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, while this story is at an end, this chapter is not: this AU continues in the next story I will be posting here (as soon as I can), 'A Strange twist of Fate'. So look for that coming soon!


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